Failing Lords
by politethief
Summary: As the King of Erebor lay dead in his casket, and his Hobbit weep at his grave, a startling transition occurs that will forever change the realm of Middle-Earth. As the kingdom retreats from its former prosperity, and the halls of Durin darken with forces unseen, a rebellion sparks against the lords of Erebor. Death gushes from the land as families shatter, and bonds break.


There was a break between lighting, when the clearing of broken arrows, shattered shields, and discarded bodies again sunk into the backdrop of darkness, banishing the terrors for but another second. Bilbo's body clenched, knees pressed tightly to his chest, bringing truth to the fact that the piece of his torso that felt as if it were hallowing, was in fact still there. His eyes sealed themselves shut, and his chin tucked between the gap of his chest and knees, waiting, again for the thunder to pierce the veiling between his senses. The endless barrage of the storm knew no bounds, and did not tread lightly on the lines of sensitivity which encased the hobbit; they merely left him alone to deal with his thoughts, his grievances.

Tears, which rimmed themselves along Bilbo's eyes, fell, drawing lines of flesh amongst an armor of dirt and sweat. Thunder crackled against the rock facade, of a realm, a people, again without a king. And still, the river rushed, though marred with the red which ebbed from the fields, from the bodies of men, and elves, and wargs, and goblins, and dwarves. A kingdom slept, safe from those who would see it destroyed.

Bilbo thought then of the impossible nature of the battle, how it was neither won nor lost and yet it was fought all the same. There was no gain but for a body toll; a loss which echoed through the hearts of the entire company, none more so than that of the burglar. Three days had passed, and still the clatter of steel crashed against the sharp crevasses of stony walls, living on in the ghosts which walked the fields. And Erebor again stunk of death, perfumed with the horrid scent of blood, and sweat, and decay.

Again, history had unleashed its repetition to plague another generation, to bury the hearts of the living with sorrow.

The day, which had begun with the most innocent of intentions, had been all but lost in the events that unfolded. The words that were said, the shaming was still there, stretching the hobbit with the utmost of guilt. He had not thought, within the wildest of his imaginings, of what was to happen; of what he was to lose. It was only when the chains of mithril dug into his skin, as his body, limp and ragged tumbled towards the ground, chest heaving and hands pawing forward at the fallen king, that the hobbit had felt the realities of his actions. No amount of comfort, nor tears consoled him, for Thorin in his casket lay as dead as the heart which laid in the hobbit's chest

The cold of the stone sunk into Bilbo's hand, stealing away the warmth of life which flowed freely, and yet cursedly within him; a curse which ached within his heart, adding to the desperation of his clamoring towards the casket. His face pressed against the smooth curvatures of stone, against the delicate braids, the outlining of armor and fur, and of the almost haunting impression of Thorin's face; a likeness which stone envied. Beneath the hobbit, laid the king of Erebor, wounds dressed, hair braided, and sword laid against his chest in a final remembrance of valor. It was hard for the hobbit to see the dwarf in such a state, with skin a ghastly shade of white; mouth silent, the air of brooding and temperament long gone from the shell which remained. They all, the company, the dwarves of Dain, the men of Bard, and the elves of Thranduil sat before the monument, and watched as the proud king was lowered into his tomb, a grouping of ten dwarves set to lay the stone silhouette atop his memorial, which born the markings of their journey, and the markings of a time long before the hobbit had met the king.

Again, thunder sounded throughout the valley, echoing the cries which Bilbo had muttered to Gandalf, begging him to do something, to intervene. The young hobbit had sobbed at Gandalf's feet, snatching at his robe as his voice wailed on in desperate pleas. No help came that day, for in the words of the Grey wizard, "What's done, cannot be so easily undone.".

It was as Bilbo raised his head, casting a sideways glance towards the stream which rushed by, that he caught the glimpse of something which frightened him to the depths of his bones. A chill struck the hobbit's body, turning his skin to goose-flesh, and causing his heart to race as the remnants of tears slid to the sarcophagus

Water parted around a mysterious shadow, giving dry land for the vile figure to pass. The air grew cold, Bilbo's breathing lowered so he could gaze through the night without the fog of his breath marring his vision. The figure drew near; a transparent body, though dark as if made up of a swarm of insects clouding together during a summer night. It moved gracefully, much like the dignified walk of elves, and just when one thought it to be ghosting above the ground, it limped, hard and strong as if landing on the stub of a leg. A chortle came from its direction; thunder stopped to allow it to speak, though it did not.

"You would do yourself a kindness to leave." Bilbo mustered out, blurting his distaste for the stranger as abruptly as he felt it. The chuckle grew louder, rendering Bilbo silent.

"And so ends the story of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror: King under the virtuous mountain, and lord to a Shirling's heart."

The voice, which now seemed to Bilbo to be like the smoothness of a nail, coming to a pointed tip, echoed all around, encasing the Halfling in its power. The figure drew closer, and as it did its colour became more defined; the shape of a cloak emerging from the night, donning the colour of ash- filled sky; a haunted blue, the colour of storm clouds. The folds of the hood revealed themselves and the transparency vanished as Bilbo confirmed its presence, verifying its existence.

"I will ask you once, and once only: what business do you have here?"

"I come only to bring comfort to such a _sensitive _creature."

"I do not require help, nor do I seek it."

Lightning flashed, striking the presence of the figure, illuminating the conceives of his shape, the gaping holes along his robes showing empty space in their folds. The hobbit's eyes flashed closed as his taunt body refused ease in the darkness of the night. Silence grew around him, and for the briefest of moments, Bilbo thought he was again alone. When the halfling's eyes reopened, before him stood not a figure or apparition, but a creature gargled and weary. The road to the creature's face paced like that of a human or elf; nose, eyes, lips, but hideous and unlike that which he had seen. The eyes, a pale green, were encaged in hallow sockets which grew ever danker as they blinked. The nose, though twisted from a breaking in the past, was handsome all but for the reddened nostrils of ailment; the harshness of cloth turning the skin to leather. And finally, the lips of a soft pink were crackled, blood oozing from between the crevices of dead white flesh, puckered out so the pair could not touch, less they create further damage to their partner. The face could have been seen as one of prior beauty, now only the distorted remnants of a time long past.

"Be gone..." Bilbo whispered silently. His lids fluttered closed, as his hands slid alongside the stone likeness of Thorin, his heart shuddering with grief. As the hobbit felt himself weak with the lingering of sorrow, a smooth, gentle hand reached out and pushed a tear from his cheek. The stoke, so affectionate and simple was like that of the fallen king. The soft wash of calloused skin, gentle as if to avoid irritation; a striking similarity to Thorin, who knew the feel of his own skin, and feared it too rough. The soft touch was followed by the gentle scraping of an overgrown nail, banishing quickly the reminiscent thoughts of the dwarf's touch.. As the feeling lingered on his skin, the Halfling sucked in air, grasping his chest as the surprisingly warm touch left him again cold. Death had taken Thorin once more.

Bilbo raised his hands, rubbing his face with worn exhaustion; no longer sparing the patience and energy to maintain the persona of copping. Somehow, in the depths of the hobbit's heart, he knew that this creature was aware of what he felt, and that regardless of disposition, it saw him as the meek and huddled remains of the hobbit he once was.

Eyes opening slowly to gaze at the the male figure, Bilbo took a swallow of air before speaking. "What is one that conjures illusions and creates grief? I beg of you, leave. Leave us be."

With a brief passing, hand gliding over the hobbit's shoulder like fog hanging onto dawn. The creature then walked before speaking with a borrowed voice. "You do not truly wish for me to leave, do you, hobbit?"

The voice, gruff and untamed held a sort of majesty, soft like freshly creamed butter, yet as tempered as stone. A voice of a ghost.

Bilbo shot up from the tomb, knocking aside the stranger's hand and retreating back behind the head of the casket watching the creature glide, now without limp. The hobbit however, was hardly in such a state, his eyes were worn and rough, his hair now dampened with sweat and rain, and his muscles weary. The Halfling's eyes blinked sluggishly, weighed down with lust for sleep.

"You know that voice, do you not Bilbo?" Called the creature, voice now deep and rich with renewed vigor. "He calls to you from the other side; he yearns for you, friend. Would you deny your king? He weeps for his hobbit. Such a pity. Shall I send him back?"

Resting his weight on the casket, the hobbit sobbed out, gasping with ragged lungs from breath. Never before had he felt so weak, so in need for help. A groan came as response, as his mouth found itself incapable of words.

"Speak up. He cannot hear you, friend."

"He... He is dead; my- my words fall on deaf ears."

"Do they? Do your ears deceive you, or shall I allow him to speak once more?" A devilish smile crossed the creature's face. It's eyes grew less weary, a fleshly tone returning to his face as again he spoke in a voice captured from the grave.

"My burglar, I do not forgive myself. I wish for you here- I wish to see you but once more. Feel the babe-like softness of your skin, see your eyes reflecting firelight, starlight. I wish to hold you once more. Oh how many armies I would give, how much gold I would pay, how many bodies I would toss to the crows."

The voice tapered to a soft finish, the words growing distorted as they went on. Had but Bilbo the energy to listen, he might have heard the twining of voices towards the end, for the darker the words grew, the harsher and more foreign the tone.

The Shirling pulled himself closer to the casket, tears roaring down his cheeks like loosed rivers. His chest heaved and his legs grew soft beneath his weight. The figure advanced, the holes in his robes now filled, showing rosy flesh. His nose was straightened and his lips smooth and without flaw. He was again, handsome, young, and as frightening as ever.

"Do you not wish to see him again, Halfling?"

Bilbo wheezed in response, his feet slipping about in the mud surrounding the sarcophagus.

"Do you? Or were your proclamations of love false?! Were your tears only convenient so long as they stole nothing from you?!"

A roar of anger, mixed in measure with exhaustion welled in the hobbit's chest as he struggled to keep himself standing. This creature, whatever it was or claimed to be was something wholly dark, unnatural and above all else frightening beyond the course of imagining. This is what Bilbo feared as he left the Shire, not the orcs and spiders, nor the pain of a battle, but the haunting sense- the lingering in his mind that darkness, though however distant, traced his steps.

"Wh-what's done, cannot be so easily undone."

A gentle smirk pulled at the man's lips, curling them into a eerie and ever intriguing smile. "Is that what he told you? The old know nothing, Bilbo Baggins- they do not speak of death for they fear that it approaches."

Eyes locked from across the field, above clouds churned, bellowing thunder about them. A man who reeked of death stood before him, offering life. Slowly, the figure approached, and Bilbo, far too tired to push away, watched silently as the hand reached out, caressing the mail beneath his tunic.

"A beautiful suit; a gift of kindness. Shall such a kindness be repaid? How strong, truly is love?" Fingers spread out, flattening against Bilbo's chest, nails clinking over the woven Mithril rings.

"You should hear him, so pathetic like this... Do you miss him, hobbit?"

Gazing from the hand, the Halfling caught the creature's eyes, his own glossing over. Biting down, Bilbo's lip quivered, and slowly, the tears again began to fall. With that, the creature pushed forward, pressing his palm to the hobbit's chest. As he did this, the weakness vanished, replaced with renewed sense of self.

"Is that better? My, you still look pale... Perhaps you should lie down." With a sudden heaviness, the hobbit walked around to the side of the casket, slinking down along the side with gentle grace, head pressed back to the casket.

"There, there. Now, isn't that better?" Crouching, the man made himself Bilbo's height, again touching his chest with softened grace. His fingers played against the metal gently, brushing against it's polished surface, lifting and toying with it as he spoke.

"There is a way, hobbit, a way to bring him back. Would you like to know how?"

The gaze between the two held sturdy, as if secured with elven rope. This man, despite Bilbo's better thinking seemed to be kind, only wishing to help. His look was so soft, and his eyes, behind sunken, sickly lids, looked kind.

He nodded.

"Very well, Thorin is dead, but not yet gone. He awaits on the other side of life, unable to move past; he awaits, tortured, lingering but for you. His soul is trapped somewhere between life and death, but should it remain in such a state, it will fragment, to be scattered to the wind. Fortunately, I have learned the ways of life, and of death, and of every matter in between. I could help, but I shall not help without consent. I only seek to help. Please, let me help."

Silence whispered softly in the folds of night, and as Bilbo took in shallow breaths, he felt his heart beating ever faster, and his skin growing moist. "What do you require?"

A breathless chuckle echoed as thunder, and as the creature again spoke, the moor trembled under it's own fear. "I am a creature of death, and to help the living, I must live. You've seen it: but mere fog, turning to shadow, to a figure, to flesh; but never a soul, never alive. To harvest, I must have a soul. Should you agree, you will never die, never grow old, and your King will return." Slowly the man pressed his hand harder against the hobbit's chest.

"Do you consent? Shall you give your soul to save his?" Nails curled into the mail, twisting the metal as he pushed harder onto the Halfling's chest. "Will you acquiesce to my whims to again be loved, be touched, held?

Tightness filled Bilbo's chest, his heart aching, and mind racing; plunging towards the hand, sobbing audibly as his mind filled with Thorin's voice, skin crawling with his touch.

"Say yes, and you will never be lonely again."

Blinking back, and grasping at the hand that held ever tighter to him, the hobbit nodded.

"Say it."

"I consent."

Darkness. The sky was without colour and the world without shape. Bilbo was lost in a void of nothingness, and he felt neither pain, nor fear, nor touch. He did not smell, and could not hear. The world was of a the silent matter which he hoped to consume his waking senses when the casket was sealed. Suddenly, brightness. The webs of light shook his body, breaking loose the mail as it scattered to the wind; the entirety of sound that of a heart-beat, steady, rhythmic. As lightning consumed him, encasing his senses, the hobbit saw the hand, beating with engorged veins, dancing to the same melody of the world around him.

Then, the world faded back into the realm he had known, basking in the soft shadows of fading moonlight, the water of the brook trickling past, the warbling of early morning birds singing above the rotting corpses of the previous night. The storm had ended, and the world was slowly edging into the grasps of dawn.

Moving his stiffened limbs, Bilbo slowly rustled the scattered remnants of the Mithril armor, stinging at it's touch. His chest was bare, scratches encircling his chest. Motionless, he laid against the casket, watching as dawn crept sluggishly over the surface of the world.

And then, he heard it.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump. Thump-thump, thump-thump._

Ever gently craning his head around, Bilbo saw the sight of nightmares, and dreams all in one. His ear, pressed gently to the King of Stone, the King of The Dead_. His_ King.


End file.
